


jubilee line

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, if i missed any tags let me know !!, no beta we die like Tubbo at the festival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’m not really uh-, sure, what’s been going on with you as of late. But I noticed something was up and I just wanted to do something nice.”George is blissfully unaware of the humid weather that has Florida in her clutches right now, but Dream doesn’t really care.Taking off the shirt that he has on, he trades it off for the sweater. The strength of the smell swirls around him, making him more at home than he’s felt in months.-or, george gives dream his sweater after noticing he was acting off, and dream decides he wants to return the favor.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 125





	jubilee line

Observing the popcorn ceiling above him, Dream lays on his bed searching for motivation in makeshift constellations. The sweltering heat of Florida is driving him up the wall. He mentally pleads that some deity will descend from the heavens and extricate him from his makeshift grave that he calls a bed.

Alas, no such thing occurs.

What does occur is this: the first notification in hours, _days_ , pops up on his phone.

A ping from the phone next to him snaps him out of his “stargazing”. He glares at his phone hard, not expecting any form of contact for any reason. His hand slides toward the appliance where it's currently plugged in by the outlet. Locating the little gadget, he pulls the cord out so he can hold it.

He criticizes the device. Turning the screen on to stare at the notification that now takes residence on his homepage. He leers at it until his vision blurs and the phone turns off, mutating into a pathetic mimic of a mirror.

He turns it on again.

_srsly dude, r u ok ?_

Dream’s not quite sure what to make of that, so he doesn't make anything of it. Swiping his phone to switch it on, he opens Discord and goes to type a response. Before his brain can even construct a coherent reply, George starts typing.

_i can see ur online lol :]_

_reply when u can, i am worried abt u_

As the spiral into his own mind progresses, Dream turns his phone off and chucks it across the room. A satisfying _thud_ comes from the area on the ground where it lands. 

He returns to the position on his back and continues gazing at his ceiling. The off-white color gives him no purpose, he decides.

After a few moments, out of complete boredom, he sits up. Turning to the side, he finally rises from his damp bed. Forcing himself to move, he trudges over to where his phone landed and opens up Discord again.

_Hi lmao, Im okay just been dealing with some stuff_

_Thank you for checking in though! hope youre well :)_

It’s more diplomatic and less friendly than what he wanted to say, but such is the life of an emotionally constipated Floridian. 

_dreaaaaaaaaaaam_

_how dare u_

_u leave for like 2 days and then boom_

_u r so mean to me :[_

Dream chuckles at George’s antics, and types another reply that he concludes is better. (It’s not.)

_Gogyyyy_

_like i said_

_Just been dealing with stuff ig_

_How are youuuuuu??_

Dream knows that he’s an idiot, you don't have to tell him he is. He knows.

_ok ignoring your stupidity, i am ok!!_

_i was wondering if u wanted to hop on teamspeak l8r or smthn and play_

_maybe stream_

_or_

_record ???_

_yknow_

_…_

_stuff :p_

By the time George has sent his 3rd message, Dream has already started spacing out. He hasn’t readied himself enough to handle the British boy’s antics at the current moment. The pit unfolding in his stomach grows tenfold, and he’s skeptical that it's going to dissipate anytime soon.

_Maybe later???_

And with that god-awful reply, Dream turns his phone off and returns it back to its rightful place by his charger. He doesn’t bother to check his phone after hearing it go off again. Much too sleep deprived to give any semblance of a personality to anybody who asks for one.

He stumbles around his house and finds himself in the kitchen. He’s already halfway through the routine of giving Patches her food before his mind and body reconnect.

“ _God,_ what am I doing with my life?” He whispers hoarsely to the stale air in his home, and maybe Patches if she decides to listen.

It’s not ideal, living alone. Especially with the demons that force their way into his mind, and make a home in places he can’t reach alone.

His hallways now stretch on for miles, becoming infinite railways that run through frigid waterfalls. Regret overwhelms him frequently, leaving him disoriented in his own home.

He puts Patches’ food down and calls for her. She comes bounding towards him, excited and ready for whatever he’s decided to give her.

Going into the living room, Dream plops himself down on the couch. He turns on the TV in hopes of finding normalcy in the technicolor world; instead, he finds himself stuck in a loop of channel surfing.

He thinks Patches joins him at one point, or maybe she doesn't. His mind is in a far off place, so the world existing just doesn’t really process.

Patches meows at him after a couple of _hoursminutesseconds_ and he eventually gets off the couch and opens the door to the backyard, letting her roam around and play. After freeing her from her confines inside, he moves back into his room. Checking his phone again, he finds a multitude of texts from George. 

_dream_

_dream_

_d re a m_

_is2g_

_u cant just_

_leave_

_u are so mean come back :[_

_hey_

_clay?_

_seriously come back_

_im worried_

_call me when you get this please_

Dream sighs, and dials George’s number which rings once, twice, before he picks up.

“ _Dreaaam, you can't do that to me._ ” His British friend says in a tinny voice.

“‘M sorry George, got busy with Patches. You know how it is. Well uh-, I suppose you don’t, but- yeah,” He replies lamely.

“ _Yeah. I can tell, so-,”_ George cuts off abruptly.

After a few seconds pause, Dream attempts to break the silence, “George, you good man?”

There’s a few moments of static from the phone, he can't tell if it’s his connection or not. Dream stands there, staring at the wall in front of him.

The beige wall suddenly comes to life with more than what was there originally, colors popping out from his wall. They dance and sway in his vision, locking him in a trance. He feels like he’s floating mid-air, unable to get down safely without hurting himself somehow. 

_“Okaaay, and-, there we go!_ ” George exclaims, connection suddenly coming back in a moment of genius.

Dream continues staring hopelessly at the wall, now trapped in his own mind without much hope of getting unstuck. It’s a desolate place, he realizes, and he wants to be held. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time his friend manages to snap him out of his reverie. Suddenly thrust back into normal life, the colors vanish into smoke. He tracks the smoke as it climbs the walls, wondering if it’ll set off the fire alarm; praying that it won’t, somehow.

“ _Clay?”_ His friend's voice finds its way through the fog, and Dream finally catches up. He’s supposed to be talking, isn’t he?

“Oh, yeah- hi. What did you want to talk about?” His voice is monotone, he knows this, but he can’t bring himself to enliven his words.

“ _A package should’ve arrived by now silly. If not, can you like, check outside or something?”_ The crackling of the phone while George speaks reminds Dream of fire. 

Dream starts walking towards the door, and sure enough, there’s a big ass package waiting for him. He’s mildly shocked he didn’t hear anyone knock or ring the doorbell, _was he really that out of it?_

“ _Lemme know when you open it, okay? I want reactions, I’ve been waiting forever for this,”_ as George speaks, Dream meanders his way into his kitchen to get a pair of scissors to open and see what’s inside the mystery package.

Cutting through the tape in the middle, he opens it and is greeted by the smell of lavender and honey. It makes its presence known by burrowing into his mind, suddenly overwhelming all his senses.

“George, what is this?” he asks, a little confused.

“ _You’ve been uh-, a little bit um-, off? And I wanted to send a surprise to make you feel better, y’know? ‘Cause you’re my best friend, and uh-, all that stuff.”_ He’s completely mumbling by the time he finishes talking, but Dream doesn’t mind.

He opens the package further to see what’s attacking his senses so completely, and he’s greeted with the sight of a blue sweater. Taking it out and holding it up, he turns it around to examine it. The material is softer and the color bluer than he would’ve thought possible from George. Bringing it to his face, he inhales sharply.

Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and he finds himself unable to speak for a second. It’s a simple gift, really, it’s so simple. But it’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for him in God knows how long, and it tugs at his heartstrings delicately.

“George, I-,” He cuts himself off because he knows he’ll start crying otherwise.

“ _I’m not really uh-, sure, what’s been going on with you as of late. But I noticed something was up and I just wanted to do something nice.”_

George is blissfully unaware of the humid weather that has Florida in her clutches right now, but Dream doesn’t really care.

Taking off the shirt that he has on, he trades it off for the sweater. The strength of the scent swirls around him, making him more at home than he’s felt in months. He knows he’ll start sweating soon but that’s okay, he doesn't mind in the slightest.

Now swimming in the unending sea of blue fabric, Dream finds himself praying again. The deity he prayed for earlier has answered his prayers in an unexpected way, and he’s thankful.

“ _I know it’s not much, but I hope it cheers you up at least a little bit. I’m here for you, and please-,”_ He cuts off again, this time shoddy connection is not responsible for the cut off.

“ _Don’t just disappear like that.”_ His voice holds an air of finality to it, that translates even through the phone.

The window in front of him has rays of light pouring through; the dust particles are visible, and if only just for a moment, they stop. Holding their breath along with the twenty-one year old. The once muggy air becomes softer, no longer carrying the miserable mood that typically accompanies the heat.

Not for the first time in his life, words escape Dream. He stands there, breathlessly, trying to recollect his thoughts and connect the dots that are desperately trying to be seen. 

The pastel purple and rich yellow manifest and swim through the dust, dancing like they’re jumping from planet to planet. Lost in their own deep green sea, not drowning, just floating by. Soon the blue of the sweater joins in and melts in with the other colors, making a home there easily.

You’d think the color combination to be unlikely, but it eases Dream’s nerves in an unusual way. 

“Hey, George?” He whispers into the phone. Watching as the colors dance on his words as they enter the air.

“ _Yeah?”_

He watches, transfixed, as a soft red joins the myriad of colors after George speaks.

“Thank you.”

The colors twinkle, almost like they’re smiling at him.

“ _You’re welcome.”_

-

A few weeks later, Dream wakes absolutely drenched in sweat. He’s glad he decided to take the sweater off the other night. At this point, it’s been a while since the sweater arrived at his doorstep. He’s considering saying fuck it and buying an impromptu ticket to England. Both so he can escape the heat, and hand deliver a sweater of his own to George.

That’s not weird. _Right?_

Fantasizing the idea, he sits up and makes his way to the bathroom. His steps echo around the room, and he stares at himself in the mirror. Examining his face, he entertains the possible idea of shaving but leaves that for after his shower. Making his way over, he turns the shower to cold in hopes of combating the rising scent of body odor which is a product of the heat, and to wash away the sweat that’s collecting in his pores.

Stepping into the shower, he shivers violently at the contrasting temperature. He stands there for a while, waiting for his body to acclimate to the glacial water that's streaming over his body, and drenching his hair. 

While spacing out, the blue of the sweater suddenly enters his vision. He chases it while it runs across the gray tiles until he’s turned around completely. Entranced, the blue meets up with dark green, and soft red. 

His hand reaches forward to touch the colors, looking for comfort in the unusual happenings that are occurring in his vision. As soon as his hand makes contact, they melt away. Going down the wall, his eyes track the colors until they bleed through the drain.

-

As time passes, the colors start manifesting into _things_. They’re almost like fairies, but more so blobs than anything. Dream is almost 110% sure that he’s going insane, but surprisingly he’s okay with that.

If the mind deteriorating is this beautiful, he finds he doesn’t care all that much. 

-

“ _Dream?”_

“Yeah, George?”

“ _Are you okay?_ ”

-

His vision swims with the most brilliant shades of blue, red, purple, and yellow. He’s got to be drugged at this point, there’s no way this is something a sober person experiences. 

He considers reaching out to George, or Sapnap, or anyone. He’s been trapped in his own mind for so long, it’s starting to show. He’s sure of it.

Losing your sanity is so damn _colorful._

-

“ _I_ _’m going to be honest, I’m a little concerned.”_

“Okay, I know it sounds _weird._ But- it’s not that bad, I swear.”

“ _You’ve only convinced yourself of that, Clay.”_

-

He’s in the kitchen cutting an apple, he’s been sitting on the idea of going to England for a while. The colors have just become a part of his everyday routine, swirling around his vision. While he’s zoning out, the red darts under the knife where he’s cutting up an apple.

He jerks the knife away, afraid to hurt the familiar blob. He stares, bewildered, at the knife in his hand, looking for any answers as to _why_ that was his knee-jerk reaction. 

He’s almost ashamed, but not quite enough for it to be detrimental to his psyche.

A sentimental attachment has been made with the figments of his imagination. It’s not that bad, it could be worse.

He considers calling George for a moment, but the man’s probably had enough of his shit over the past week. Concern most likely spiking at an all time high, all because of Dream's inability to speak properly. Who knew articulating words was so difficult?

Picking up the cut up apple slices and putting them on a plate, he moves his way back into his room and looks up flights to England.

His mind is too far gone, and at this rate he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to climb his way out.

-

“ _I’m sorry, you-, you what?!”_

“Surprise..?”

_“I’m genuinely going to fucking kill you- oh my god.”_

-

He lands in Heathrow Airport at 10:36am, on an inconspicuous day in late October. There’s a sweater waiting for George at the bottom of his suitcase, that hasn't seen the light of day in at least 24 hours.

“Oh-, holy shit, you actually came,” A shocked voice announces from behind him.

He smiles as the colors that he’s grown all too familiar with cloud his vision. They jump and dance around, clearly just as elated as he is. 

“Why _yes_ , yes I did! Thank you for noticing,” He turns around and goes breathless as lavender and honey burrows it’s way into the crevices of his mind again. The colors that match those names come from behind him and surround George in a pleasant display. Almost like they’re showing off their source.

A giddy smile stretches across his face, and a matching one appears on George’s.

“Come here, you big lug.” 

Dream steps forward in a hurried fashion, eager to finally hug his friend.

When his arms finally wrap around George, and when George’s finally wrap around him, he closes his eyes.

The colors he’s grown so fond of fade slowly, seemingly proud that they were able to bring two idiots together.

-

“So, do you still see them?”

“Not as much anymore, hate to say it but-”

“But?”

“But nothing, actually.”

-

Clay navigates the streets of London like a lost puppy, George just disappearing into thin air somehow. So, now he’s lost _and_ doesn’t know where George is. 

Great.

He really wishes he had researched just a little bit before he decided, _Hey! I’m gonna fly across the Atlantic ocean to visit my friend without really telling them I was coming!_

Because that’s a logical thing to do.

While walking, something catches his attention in his peripheral vision. He hasn’t seen the splotches of color in a bit, so seeing them here and now eases his anxiety like they did the first time. He lets out a slow breath, watching the condensation disappear in mild fascination. 

He turns and decides to follow the blue-ish green that dances playfully from light to light. Where is it going to lead him? He’s not quite sure, but that’s the most exciting part.

Walking as fast as is socially acceptable, he follows the green creature that flows through the frozen air with an unnatural agility. He doesn’t know how long he follows the little mystical being, but he ends up in front of a cafe somehow.

Stepping inside, his senses are ambushed with the smell of baked goods and coffee beans. Rubbing his hands to warm them up, he walks up the counter to order something. Waiting here for George sounds like an okay idea, it’s definitely not the _worst idea_ that he’s had recently.

“Hi, uh-, can I have,” He pauses, and looks up to the menu. The green blob flashes across an item on the board. “I’ll take a ham and cheese bagel, I guess?”

“Will that be all?”

Clay pauses, _will that be all?_ He decides immediately, that no, that will not be all.

“Uhm, no, not really. I’ll take hot cocoa too.”

The worker smiles at him, and taps some buttons on his little doohickey.

“That’ll be £8.”

Clay deposits the money in the cashier's hand and heads over to find a seat. He ends up by one of the windows, with a pleasant view of the street.

After his name is called and he gets his things, he sits back down, and waits for any contact from his companion. Questioning if his phone is even alive, he pulls it out of his pocket and checks to make sure.

Turning it on, he sees that George has indeed contacted him. Quite a lot actually, with a staggering total of 8 missed calls and 47 texts. As Clay ponders how exactly he can reply without sounding like a dick, George decides it’s an appropriate time to call him again.

Clay picks up almost immediately.

“ _Clay?! My god, where are you? I’ve been trying to contact you for like, 20 minutes or so? Did you get kidnapped or something? I mean-, obviously not because you picked up the phone, but-”_

“George,” Clay laughs. “I’m okay! I’m in some cafe, I got a lil’ chilly.”

“ _Oh okay. Thank_ god, _j_ _ust-, tell me where you are so I can find you.”_

“Roger that, Captain.”

“ _Also, d_ _on’t just wander off next time,”_ George all but begs, " _Please."_

The air changes quickly, becoming charged with static as Clay finds aggravation appear out of nowhere. The irritation he feels is irrational, but he can’t find it in himself to chase it away.

“Don’t disappear next time, then,” Clay shoots back, he doesn’t mean for the words to come out as harsh as they do. A bright orange materializes, exiting from his mouth with each breath. They cover his field of sight, until all he knows is the sharp color.

George goes quiet for a second on the other end, the only sounds being the chattering of the people in the cafe, and the occasional harsh breathing of his friend.

“I’m-, I’m sorry,” Clay speaks the sorrow into existence as the fluorescent orange is rightfully replaced by a muted blue. _It matches the mood_ , he thinks bitterly.

George hangs up on him. Dream knows he deserves it.

-

They don’t talk about it.

Why would they? There’s nothing to talk about.

-

Dream leaves soon, he knows that. The air around the two has been stuffy recently, and that muted blue follows Dream like a plague. He realises, almost too late, that he never gave George the sweater. Which was almost the sole reason he came here. 

He leaves on George’s birthday, he’ll give George the sweater then. 

-

November comes quietly, Dream’s bags are packed all except for one item. He’s physically ready to go, mentally it’s a different story. It doesn’t really matter all that much though, he’s overstayed his welcome. 

They drive to the airport in a stilted silence, the atmosphere almost painful. The pit in his stomach is back, and he feels his throat close up. The muted blue flits across the car window; it’s not raining but he feels like it should be. They pull up to the airport with no trouble.

“I _know-_ I know it’s been-,” Dream struggles to find the words, and it doesn’t help that George refuses to make eye contact, “It’s been, not _good-_?”

“That’s an understatement,” George replies with no warmth. As he speaks, a matching icy blue manifests itself into existence, taking up space and mingling with the muted blue that was already present. The symphony of blues is now swirling around the car, and Dream feels so, so, _so_ , lost.

“Here,” Dream thrusts the hoodie into George’s lap and exits the car. He walks quickly to his gate, and doesn’t look back. The blues disappear, they must feel as unwanted as the person seeing them, he surmises.

-

Spending Christmas alone isn’t how Dream thought this year would end, but it’s not like things ever go according to plan. He hasn’t heard from George in a while. He’s completely given up on consistently updating his social media, and pre-records and uploads lackluster videos that he uploads systematically.

The decline in content quality is obvious, and he’s this close to giving up, but he pushes forward. Determination was never his best friend, but perseverance is. 

It doesn’t really snow in Florida, which he supposes he’s grateful for, but it does get pretty chilly. Dipping into the low 30s at night. He wants to wear the sweater George gifted to him, but the thought of following through with that is too agonizing.

His house is bland, there are some decorations lazily strewn about here and there, but nothing grand. Dream isn’t really in the holiday mood this year. The blobs haven’t appeared since the airport, and he feels a little more alone everytime he reminds himself.

-

Dream’s woken up abruptly with thunderous bangs on his front door. They reverberate throughout the whole house, making the walls shake just a little bit. He wonders bitterly if someone’s come to murder him.

The pounding stops after a second, only to be replaced by the incessant ring of the doorbell. Patches jumps onto his bed and meows at him, begging him to get the noise to stop so she can sleep again.

Begrudgingly, he gets up and grabs a bat from the hallway in case someone is _actually_ here to kill him. The walk from his room to the front door takes much longer than he’d like to admit, and the ringing of the doorbell only gets louder as time passes. Hesitating in front of the door, he ponders his options before deciding opening the door was his best bet.

Opening the door he’s greeted by a fairly unexpected sight.

“I didn’t want you to spend New Year’s alone, didn’t really seem fair,” George mumbles from Dream’s front doorsteps.

Allowing himself to have this, Clay smiles fondly.

“No, no it really doesn’t.”

The door opens wider, allowing George to waltz back into Clay’s life.

-

They talk, finally.

-

A couple weeks into January, Clay finally breaks the ice as best as he can. (Which isn’t well at all, _what did you expect?_ )

“Why _did_ you come here, again?” It’s not an accusation, even if it may pose as one.

“Doesn’t seem all too nice to ghost the person you’re in love with, then proceed to make them spend Christmas alone, to just _not_ show up dramatically before New Year’s,” George replies easily, the same way he always has.

-

Clay runs a hand through George’s deep mahogany hair. They’re both studying the ceiling, pursuing the promise of answers in the dark. The sun has long since set, but their eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark.

“Hey, remember when you gave me your sweater like-,” Clay pauses, searching for an accurate time frame, “Forever ago?”

George laughs, a deep green that resonates from his chest, still as soft and tender as it’s always been. 

“Why yes, I do remember that, _darling_.”

Clay smiles, a big ol’ toothy grin, at the pet name and although George can’t see it, he can still hear the mirth and joy in the following sentence:

“It meant more to me than I think you know.”

George gets that, probably more than Clay realises but that’s okay. He doesn’t have to realise it.

The colors are back and dance across the ceiling, giving Clay a private show of familiarity. They dance in solidarity and with pride, before finally leaving a saccharine scent in the air. They’ve done their job, and Clay thanks the deity that helped him along somehow.

-

“George?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Clay.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this is so rushed oml,,,, also this was betad by myself so uhhh y e a h <3  
> but yes i listened to jubilee line on repeat for at least 7 hours to write this so pls pray for my mental health <3  
> there are more prompts coming but dear lord theyre not gonna be done in a timely fashion at this rate so pl e a se bare with my slow ass  
> also ryan i adore you, and i thank you for unknowingly giving me the motivation to power through this :] <3  
> AND ALSO MIKEY FOR DOING A MILLION SPRINTOS WITH ME  
> ok yeah thats it, be safe yall skhdfjs


End file.
